


if you tame me

by merelydovely



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Activism, M/M, Oblivious, Pining, courfeyrac and grantaire are curly-haired cousins, this is set in some vague time in the 1960s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 17:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16269371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelydovely/pseuds/merelydovely
Summary: Courfeyrac works at the Magical Menagerie in Diagon Alley, and he's got a very persistent customer that seems to have taken an interest in something more than purchasing a fire crab.Grantaire moved to England after graduating from Beauxbatons. He never expected to see an old school acquaintance come striding through the door of his favorite café, nor could he have anticipated how badly said acquaintance would derail Grantaire's courtship of his favorite waitress.(Two prompt fills in one story!)





	if you tame me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [garconrouge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/garconrouge/gifts).



Courfeyrac has reached the part of his shift where the thought of performing a stunning charm on himself becomes inordinately attractive. His lunch break had been over an hour ago: recently enough that his full stomach is still making him sleepy, yet distant enough that he’s already ready for another break. Knucker, the owner’s kneazle, yawns hugely, and Courfeyrac yawns with her. Six months in, working at the Magical Menagerie is no longer capable of keeping him awake and engaged the whole day long. Not without a steady stream of customers, at least.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Courfeyrac notices the fwooper in the window resettle its feathers, opening its beak in a silent twitter. Someone must be entering the vestibule.

Sure enough, in another moment a man steps through the front door and into the shop. He’s tall and dark-skinned, sporting close-coiling hair like a crop of midnight-black moss. He’s also unfairly gorgeous, with browline glasses ten years out of fashion that nevertheless manage to accentuate his sweeping cheekbones. Courfeyrac drinks in the sight of him. His robes are a little unusual, but not in any way Courfeyrac can place.

“Hello and welcome to the Magical Menagerie,” says Courfeyrac quickly, before he can get any more lost in his own head. He gives what he knows is his most winning smile. “How may I help you?”

“Thank you, hello,” says the man, but the “thank” sounds more like “sank.” His voice has a pleasant Germanic bounce to it. That explains the robes, then––he must be from the Continent. “As it happens, I am looking for a fire crab.”

“A fire crab, you say?” says Courfeyrac, a little taken aback. He may have adjusted to the idea of having a fire crab sitting around the shop, jewelled shell glittering in an enticingly exotic way, but it still seems more like decoration than a promising prospective pet. “You’ll be needing a license for that one, mate.”

“License?” echoes the man. “Oh. _Lizenz_ , of course. Yes, I will acquire one soon. For now I only wish to look.”

His accent is intoxicating, Courfeyrac thinks. Or perhaps that’s just his face. God knows Courfeyrac isn’t turned on by Grantaire’s accent, and the man might as well be greasing his vocal cords with red wine and escargot.

“Right this way,” he says, motioning the bespectacled customer toward the fire crab’s enclosure. The large tortoise-shaped creature sits toward the back of the store, where Feuilly can easily clean its cage and shell after hours. The many jewels encrusting its shell catch the early afternoon sun pouring in through the skylight, which lets them twinkle with their own inner glow long after the sun has gone down.

“Ahh, it is so magnificent,” enthuses the man. He kneels down until the fire crab can eye him balefully. “Am I permitted to touch?”

“I thought you said you only wished to look,” Courfeyrac can’t help saying.

The man shoots him a sharp glance, then laughs amiably. “I did say that!” he concedes. “But English, as you can see––” Courfeyrac smirks at him, and he rolls his eyes, “––as you can _hear_ , is not my first language, and I think I should be allowed some room for corrections.”

“Fair enough,” says Courfeyrac. It isn’t really _that_ funny, but he has to fight to suppress his laughter nonetheless. Such is the power of a pretty face. “You’re welcome to touch, but first convince me you know what you’re doing. I’d rather not have to waste my burn salve on you.”

“God forbid,” says the man, and––and those dimples are really just unfair. “I promise you, I know how to handle fire crabs. My grandfather had one when I was a boy. But I have never had one of my own, and I want this one here to get used to the touch of my hand before I buy it.”

His voice gets inexplicably deeper on the words _get used to the touch of my hand_. Courfeyrac dies a little inside.

“Getting him used to your touch?” he says, swallowing dry. “Sounds good. Sounds––great. Touch away.”

He pointedly doesn’t look as the man reaches out a long-fingered hand to stroke the crab, because he is _not_ going to be a creep. He is _not._

* * *

 “You didn’t even get his _name?”_ says Grantaire in disbelief. He likes to swing by whenever he’s in Diagon Alley, knowing that Courfeyrac will let him pet the Puffskeins as long as he wants.

“I was trying to act _normal_ ,” wails Courfeyrac. “It’s not like I _usually_ ask people for their names when they’re just looking!”

“Mr. Fire Crab, then,” says Grantaire sagely. “Well, I hope for your sake he comes back.”  


* * *

Mr. Fire Crab does indeed come back. It takes him an entire week, but he comes back, and he heads straight for his putative pet when he does, sparing only a brief “Hello again,” for Courefyrac, who’s busy untangling the tongues of three bellicose Puffskeins.

“Any luck with that license?” asks Courfeyrac when he’s resumed his spot behind the counter, hoping to make conversation.

“Not yet,” admits Mr. Fire Crab. There’s a brief pause, then: “It’s difficult, you know. The paperwork. Because––”

“Because you’re not a local?” interjects Courfeyrac. “I can imagine that would make it quite a headache.”

“Yes,” says Mr. Fire Crab, straightening up. “I am visiting for the winter, but it is possible I will stay longer. Your Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures does not know quite what to do with me.”

The name of the department rattles off his foreign tongue easily, like he’s had a little too much practice wrestling with it over the last few weeks. Courfeyrac can certainly sympathize. While Feuilly handles most of the paperwork, Courfeyrac still spends hours helping to fill out the forms that track licensing and headcount. The DRCMC is the second-largest department at the Ministry of Magic, and it shows.

“Well,” says Courfeyrac, “I for one hope you choose to stay. It’s always good to brighten up our dreary little isle with a bit of Continental charm.”

Mr. Fire Crab smiles at him. “For charm you would want a Frenchman or an Italian, surely?”

Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows. “Where did you say you were visiting from, Mr…?”

“Combeferre,” says Mr. Fire Crab. Well. Combeferre, now. “And I did not say. But my country of origin is Germany.”

Even in his German accent, Combeferre’s name strikes Courfeyrac as rather French, and he says as much.

“Something we have in common, I think?” say Combeferre, nodding at Courfeyrac’s name badge, his first and last name both beautifully hand-lettered there by Feuilly.

“Yes,” says Courfeyrac. “Most of my extended family is still in France. My branch are the stiff English cousins.”

“Not so stiff,” says Combeferre with a smile, his eyes flicking down to where Courfeyrac is leaning bonelessly against the counter. “Your English welcome has been very warm.”

“You’re not so charmless yourself,” returns Courfeyrac, and Combeferre ducks his tall head a little, dimpling.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, making for the door.

“For the fire crab?” asks Courfeyrac.

Doorknob in hand, Combeferre turns to look over his shoulder. Their eyes meet. “For the fire crab,” Combeferre confirms. But his voice is full of laughter. 

* * *

 True to his word, Combeferre comes back the following week, but, equally true to his word, he’s clearly there for the fire crab. Courfeyrac is busy with other customers and can do little more than call out a quick hello in passing.

It’s remarkable how such a small disappointment leaves Courfeyrac feeling as though the entire week’s been wasted.

* * *

Grantaire’s latest portrait is finally coming along. He’d slept only a few hours so he could keep working on the underlayer before it went touch-dry, but now he’s confident that he’s ready to move up to the next layer, so he’s celebrating with a visit to Diagon Alley.

First, he drops in on Courfeyrac. His cousin, it transpires, is hopelessly mopey, all because he didn’t get to flirt with that Mr. Fire Crab of his. Next stop is the Café Musain. Joly’s shift at St. Mungo’s doesn’t start until five in the afternoon, and he often likes to gear up for it with a leisurely afternoon tea. Bossuet’s latest invention has exploded in his face yet again, so he too is likely to be found putzing about the neighborhood.

The prize of the Café Musain, though, is Floreal Tibbins, a blithe and beautiful brunette who charms the flowers in her hair to bloom out of season. With pert assets and perter opinions, she draws Grantaire’s ear as well as his eye, and no trip to the Musain is complete without getting her to laugh at some outrageous thing he’s said, or, failing that, at least getting her to laugh at his accent, which has yet to fade entirely even after three years and change.

“And how is my loveliest of ladies today?” he says smoothly, not bothering to look at the menu.

Floreal smiles brightly at him. “Can’t complain. Things are starting to pick up, what with the season and all, but at least I don’t have to clean the outdoor tables for another few months.”

“I doubt that’s going to make up for the Christmas rush,” says Grantaire.

“ _Nothing_ makes up for the Christmas rush,” she opines. “What’ll you have?”

He rattles off his tea order. He should probably cultivate a preference for a beverage that looks markedly less like his paint water, but that would require effort he’s not willing to expend.

He coaxes Floreal back over several times before the arrival of Joly and Bossuet, twice for refills and once for biscuits. She chats aimlessly with him about the presents they’re planning to buy and the cost of this year’s reformulated Pepper-Up Potion and the abysmal performance of the Tutshill Tornadoes in last week’s match against Kenmare. He rambles about his latest portrait and she stands at his table and listens, laughing when he describes the difficulty of properly capturing his subject’s wandering mole, cursed to roam the hills and valleys of the subject’s face for all of time.

He doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell with her, he knows, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t hoard up her smiles in his heart, little pieces of sunshine that warm him even more than the piping hot tea.

Joly casts his customary Cleansing Charm on his chair before he sits in it. He attempts to do the same for Bossuet, but the hapless inventor has already let his legs collapse under him as the spell is cast, which results in an invisible hand wiping away not only the dirt on the chair but Bossuet as well.

“Excellent work,” says Grantaire, feigning pride. He had to stop himself from saying _clean as a fresh sou_ , switching at the last second to the English idiom. “It’s clean as a whistle.”

Grumbling, Bossuet clambers back up into his now-sparkling seat. “Thanks a lot, Joly,” he says.

“I won’t apologize for cleanliness,” says Joly primly. “Just because wizards are less susceptible to non-magical germs doesn’t mean we’re _immune.”_

Seeing the arrival of new customers, Floreal makes her way over once more, and Grantaire’s flattered to note that Floreal is far less solicitious with his friends than she’d been with him. His eyes follow her form as she walks back to the row of kettles behind the counter. Maybe she––no. No, he’s kidding himself. She’s not the type to take an artist for a lover, no matter how much money his family has back in France. She wants someone with ambition, with drive; he has none of that whatsoever. He should be happy just to be able to hold her attention.

He dunks his biscuit morosely in his tea, only half listening to Bossuet describe his latest disaster, and silently wishes Courfeyrac better luck with his Mr. Fire Crab.

* * *

The three of them are just wrapping up a reasonable approximation of afternoon tea when the door swings open with a burst of chilled air. Some sixth sense compels Grantaire to turn.

At first, the only thing he absorbs is the eye-catching blue of the figure’s winter robes, richer and darker than Beauxbatons blue but still somehow evoking it. Then he sees the scarf––a homemade tricolore, well-loved––and for all it’s been three years and change, the man doesn’t look a day over seventeen.

“Enjolras,” he says on reflex, too quietly to be heard across the room. Then, louder, “Enjolras!”

Enjolras starts, his head whipping around on that damnably swan-like neck. “Grantaire!”

It’s a little embarassing, how relieved Grantaire is to be recognized––to be known by name, no less. The two of them had interacted at school, of course, but Grantaire had been even more of a waste of space at the time; if forced to watch Enjolras struggle to come up with his name, Grantaire would’ve been disappointed, but not surprised.

Enjolras sweeps over to their table, his cheeks pink with cold. “I had no idea you were in England, R, hello,” he says to Grantaire in French, leaning down to press their cheeks together. It’s hard to say what affects Grantaire more: the sudden reappearance of _la bise_ or the sound of such an intimate nickname. “Who are your friends? Won’t you introduce––oh.” He makes a rueful little noise, then switches to English to address the rest of the table. “Please forgive me, I forgot I’m in England.”.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Bossuet.

“Newly arrived?” inquires Joly.

“Two weeks ago,” says Enjolras. He opens his mouth as if to say more, but Grantaire interjects.

“Enjolras, this is Joly, he’s a Healer at St. Mungo’s, and Bossuet, he’s a Modernizer. Joly, Bossuet, this is Enjolras, he’s––well, we knew each other at school, I don’t actually know what he’s up to these days.”

“I’m an activist for the rights of magical creatures,” says Enjolras simply. “I’m here to liaise with an international group. We are on the train of, euh, we _are trying_ to get the Ban on Experimental Breeding passed in as many European countries as possible.”

“Present progressive is tricky, isn’t it,” says Grantaire, smirking a little. Languages had been just about the only thing at which Enjolras hadn’t naturally excelled.

Enjolras rolls his eyes, a gesture which strikes Grantaire as almost as fond as it is exasperated. Odd.

"Ban on experimental breeding?" says Joly, and Enjolras lights up. 

"Yes! The intent is to reduce the cruel and unusual treatment of creatures who, while perhaps not sentient, are at the very least sapient, capable of suffering and pain. Attempting to breed strange new varieties is often goes hand in hand with the misery of the experimental subjects. Outlawing such experiments will not only reduce the chances of breaches of the Statute of Secrecy, but also decrease the awful mishandling of far too many innocent creatures."

He says it so earnestly, so simply, as if nothing could be clearer. It's not any of the subjects Grantaire remembers him harping on back in school, but it's familiar in form if not content. "Still fighting the good fight, then?" asks Grantaire, and now it's he who sounds impossibly fond. 

Enjolras looks at him sharply, and hesitates a bit, as if waiting for a more substantive rebuttal. He's not going to get one. "You and your friends should come join my group in the back," says Enjolras at length. "I would love to tell you more, and introduce you to my local connections."

Joly's chair scrapes the floor as he stands. "I'd love to," he says warmly. "I've only got a few minutes before I've got to get on––my shift, you understand."

Enjolras beams at him. "Of course, of course!"

And anywhere Joly goes, Bossuet will follow. Grantaire isn't going to be able to get out of this one, no matter how little he wants to sit through a screed about justice for the Puffskeins or whatever it is Enjolras is cooking up this time. He resolves to say nothing, to not get involved any more than he absolutely has to.

His plan changes, though, when after a dizzying round of introductions in the Musain's back room, Floreal appears to take everyone's orders––and can't seem to get enough of Enjolras' "save the animals" spiel.

Or, for that matter, Enjolras himself. 

Grantaire opens his mouth to speak. "This all sounds fascinating," he says brightly. "How can I help?"

 

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued very soon! I have the whole thing plotted out, I just forgot exactly when it was due ^^;


End file.
